A Minotaur of Mishakal
by Jonathon Oak
Summary: One-shot story. A Minotaur legionary of the Striking Scorpion Legion is afflicted with a terrible wound while fighting in Silvanesti. However, the grace of the "Empress" may yet save him... Rated M because of some strong language.
"It's no good. We may have to amputate his leg."

"And leave him a cripple? It'd be kinder to kill him now."

"And get into trouble with his general? I'd rather not cross General Gravic, Kathos."

"He's doomed either way. Just look at his leg. It's festering even as we speak. And the _stench_ of it…"

The two menders glanced at the figure on the stretcher, who was still groaning pitifully even after being doped numerous times with what sleep draught they had to spare. His armour had been removed, leaving him in the padded gambeson beneath and his leg had been stretched out. The wound had grown larger, black and purple around the edges while an angry red right between. It glistened, and from it rose the stink of decay. The burning incense on a brazier did nothing to lessen the smell.

It was a wonder the infection hadn't poisoned him yet, but knowing who made the wound perhaps that was deliberate. From the soldier's testimony, the pain was insufferable. The sleeping draught had been the only thing that could help him sleep, but even then the figure squirmed and was drenched in sweat.

In the silence of the tent, it was the only noise being made. Outside the legion's encampment continued oblivious to the decisions being made within the canvas walls.

Kathos snorted, and spat outside of the infirmary tent's entrance.

"Fuck the elves and their cowardice. _Poisoned_ arrows of all things. As though magic wasn't bad enough."

"We still have their precious city."

"Burning it all to the ground would be too good for it, but the General insists it stays standing."

The other mender, Horic, growled and spared one last glance at the prone figure. His look was grim as he rubbed the underside of his muzzle. "He's no good to the Empire anymore, no matter what we do. Sargas damn it all."

"You know better than that, Horic. He's not finished serving the Emperor yet. He'll continue to serve with the rest of the Foreunners."

Horic made a face. "Oh, trust you to turn this into an excuse for a sermon, _brother_."

"Your sister has joined us now. Why are you still so reluctant?"

The two turned to leave the tent. "I just prefer to think I'm in charge of my own destiny, and that there aren't spooks fiddling with things in the background."

" _Spooks_? A fine way to talk of those who watch over from beyond the veil."

Their voices became muted, buried beyond the clamour of activity outside the flap. Horic made one last muted " _Enough with the religion already!_ " and the two were lost.

Within the infirmary, Jallot es-Lopas shifted on his stretcher and clenched his teeth, shivering slightly as a hand rose shakingly and pawed at his leg, not daring to touch too far down the thigh. An eye opened, blood shot and unfocused, and the legionnaire's ears flattened as he let out a low, breathless cry of pain. His leg was on fire again. He could feel it. Feel the phantom flames boring a hole into his thigh, the arrowhead white hot deep within his flesh. Within the bone. Had they not taken it out yet?

Jallot's back arched and he shifted, trying to escape from the agony that now consumed him. The agony that now made up his existence since he collapsed while on patrol two mornings ago. It swallowed him up like a see, deafening thought and all other sensation. At times he wondered whether Jallot was just a dream, and the pain was really all there was. How could this happen? The menders promised him the wound would heal, that he could return to duty and not worry about it. But instead he was now consigned here, and even if he could barely think he knew what the end of this would be.

As he groped blindly, his legs shifted in the wrong direction and at once white hot fire shot through his leg, up his spine and into the back of his eyes. He could not hold it back. He screamed.

" **KILL ME NOW, YOU BASTARDS!** " he heard himself cry, the excruciation forcing strength into his lungs. " **STOP CHATTING LIKE FUCKING KENDER AND JUST DO IT!** "

The action robbed him of what energy he had left, and at last Jallot collapsed back onto his stretcher and could barely keep himself from sobbing. The shame alone should have been enough to end him. But the universe lacked that much justice. An arm fell back across his muzzle, hiding his eyes from view, and slowly he felt darkness consume him again, smothering the burning of his damning wound.

OOO

Jallot opened his eyes again what felt like centuries later, breathing heavily, and groaned through his teeth as the pain returned. The tent had grown dark. Had night fallen? Were those sick psychopaths _really_ still putting off his death? He deserved better than this! He was a legionary of the Striking Scorpion Legion! A veteran of both Emperor's campaigns! He supported Hotak in his overthrow of Chot the Terrible! He was the one who drove a sword into the stomachs of those who sought to prevent him from restoring the people and their rightful destinies! How could they just leave him to suffer like this?

His leg screamed as he shifted again, and Jallot nearly did himself too, until he saw – or sensed, with his addled mind he could not tell which – that he was not alone in his tent anymore.

Blinking blearily in the poor light, a single brazier being the only poor source of illumination, he saw a figure sitting at the foot of his stretcher. It wore the robes of a mender, and from its form seemed to be female, but from that he could sense no more. It – she – sat and watched him closely. Her body language seemed oddly curious, as though she was trying to make some sort of observation from Jallot and his torture. Her mender robes were unusual though, coloured a deep blue.

He hissed through his teeth, nostrils flaring. "Are you enjoying this, bitch!?" he spat. "Why won't you finish this? What have I done to deserve this torment?"

The figure shifted. "What haven't you done, Jallotikoranti es-Lopas? You've made others suffer just as much as you in your time."

"What? What in oblivion are you…?" Jallot tried to summon the rage behind his voice, but the pain had left him too drained. He couldn't even lift the weight of his own head anymore. "Ugh…just kill me…please…don't force me to beg…finish it…"

"Is that what you want?" she sounded almost intrigued.

No. Not intrigued. Disappointed?

His head sank back, his eyes closing, barely having the strength to keep awake. "Please…I don't….I'm not stron…strong enough anymore…"

There was silence for a moment. Then two. Too long.

Jallot managed to open his eyes just a little, and saw the female had moved closer into the light. Unable to keep himself coherent as it was, he was suddenly struck by how beautiful the female was. Her fur was white like virgin snow, her muzzle long and elegant, her body possessed of a matronly weight and figure...In the dim light of the room she almost glowed.

Her hand gently pressed against the wound, causing another spike of pain to stab into his thigh. He bit it back, just, and tried to summon the breath to question.

"The poison has seeped into the blood preventing it from clotting, while inflaming your nerve endings and causing you your agony," she said suddenly, her voice low. Almost pained. "It has also crippled your body's resistance to contamination. The wound is festered and will not heal. Not on its own. However the poison is also retarding the corruption's growth. You will be in this state for weeks. Maybe even months, before the end. The pain will not abate. You will be driven insane from the agony. Assuming your menders don't just kill you first."

Jallot said nothing. He no longer had the strength.

"In this state you are useless to the Empire. Death would be a mercy, such as you know it. Amputation would leave you worse than useless. You'll be an outcast. A cripple. A shameful reminder of the cold cruelty of your people. A shade without name, purpose, or future."

"…Why…?" Jallot whispered. "Why are you saying this? Why did this happen? Why won't you end this?"

"I dislike throwing away lives like unwanted trinkets," the female said. "Especially not those who show promise. And you did show promise, once. Do you remember, Jallot? I saw you do this. Back when you were sacking the town once called Kitharesti.

"You were part of the slave-finding team. Sent to plunder homes looking for those who did not escape the carnage. Those who would be forced into bondage, to toil and die at the Empire's whim. Those who would be slaughtered who could not serve. You entered a home at the end of the street, accompanied by three of your fellows. You stripped the house from top to bottom. Then you found a discarded rope, knotted like a ladder.

"Your eyes cast upwards to the house's rafters. You saw the hiding place. When you climbed up there you saw, huddled in the darkness, six souls. Four children, their mother, and a wounded fighter. The mother would have been forced into slavery, to die a slow and miserable death. The children and the fighter would have been killed on the spot, the latter slowly before the other captives as an example. This would have happened, when your fellows called up to you to ask whether you found anyone.

"But you paused. You looked upon them for a moment, saw their fear, and then called out that there was no one there. The house was empty, you said. Then you climbed down from the rafters and left the house, though not quite in peace."

Jallot frowned slowly. How did she know that? Was she there in that city? Did someone else find those elves? Is that why he was being left there? Punishment for insubordination? For weakness? Even he didn't know why he said that. He was tired. There was no honour in it. They were doomed to die anyway. They were probably face-first in a ditch with crossbow bolts in their backs even now.

The female tilted her head, and looked at him in the eyes. He saw that hers were the purest blue, like a sapphire sea. "Those six elves survived Kitharesti, Jallot. The only survivors. Because of you, they fled safely from Silvanesti and joined their fellows. They lived because of you. Why? What made you say what you did?"

The question troubled Jallot. It made him think too deeply about parts of himself he'd prefer to keep hidden. Doubts he did not express out loud. Questions he tried to bury under duty. Thoughts he knew were shameful. He tried to raise a hand to push the healer away, but he could scarcely even move his smallest finger.

"…what …?"

"I can save you, Jallot," the mender said, quietly. "I can end your pain. I can even save your leg. And I won't demand for anything in return." She touched his wound, and Jallot winced immediately from habit…but the touch caused no pain. If anything…the pain lessened.

"I want you to remember Kitharesti, Jallot es-Lopas. I want you to remember that which stayed your hand. That's a part of you I want to save. That I want to grow."

"Who are you…?" Jallot managed to gasp. " _What_ are you?"

The female gave a small smile, then leaned forward and gently brushed Jallot's muzzle tenderly as though she were a mother soothing a frightened child. Her blue eyes were soft, pierced with sorrow and compassion in equal measure. Jallot suddenly felt as though he were very small, and the female impossibly huge. Not in the physical sense, but somehow in the way of her very being. It was not intimidating to belittling. Instead, it was comforting…

He recalled old tales from his grandmother, before she passed away. Old tales of the world before Sargas left the world. Of the old golds who fled while Sargas sacrificed himself for his chosen people.

The female raised her eyebrows, thumb gently brushing at his fur. "You know who I am, child. And I think I know who you are too." Her muzzle lowered and she softly kissed Jallot on the brow.

At that touch, coolness spread as though he was being enveloped in a soothing bath. Not cold, but quenching. The fire left his body, first from his head, then to his shoulders, down through his torso and finally to his leg. The pain lessened, grew quiet, and then was banished completely. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Jallot's body was still. Placid. Untroubled. His leg throbbed still, but the pain was muted, bearable, normal.

"I am Mishakal," the female whispered. "And I have chosen you, if you wish it."

A great heaviness suddenly weighed down on Jallot's body, his eyes no longer able to remain open. As though the exhaustion of a thousand years had finally caught up on him, Jallot sank into a stretcher that may as well have been the most luxurious bed in the world and slept deeply. From his leg, no further trouble came.

OOO

He woke to the astonishment of his menders, who saw that his legs had suddenly reversed course and began to heal itself. The stench had gone, and the flesh had slowly returned to a more promising colour. Horic could scarsely believe his eyes ("We had only been gone an hour!" he exclaimed), while Kathos looked quietly satisfied.

"It seems those who have gone before are not finished with you here, legionary," he said cryptically. "I always knew they watched over us, but never thought they'd act in this manner. I should tell Elder Thenis about you. The Temple would be most intrigued by this act."

Jallot bluntly declined.

It wasn't until they'd left that he shifted on his stretcher and felt something uncomfortable dig into his back through his padded gambeson. Reaching under there, ignoring the throbs of pain from his now healing leg, his fingers touched and clasped something cool, smooth and metallic. He was rather puzzled when he pulled out from under him a single silvery disc on a blue ribbon.

Etched upon it was a looping symbol that made Jallot's fur stand on end. Despite never seeing it before…he somehow recognised it. And recognised what he now owed to the Empress it represented. A part of him wanted to throw the medallion away, and pretend that his leg had healed because of his own strength. To return to the ranks and serve the Imperium as he'd always done, and damn the blue bitch to the Void. It would have been such an easy thing to do.

But Jallot knew he was a better man than that. If only as a matter of honour. He slipped the medallion over his neck and under his gambeson.

Somehow, he could feel someone smiling upon him.


End file.
